


Bring The Sun

by dlm



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flight Attendants, Banter, LMAO, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5691397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dlm/pseuds/dlm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>U.N.C.L.E. is, without a doubt, one of the strangest airlines Napoleon’s had to work for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring The Sun

**Author's Note:**

> ngl i've had this sitting around in google docs for months now. 
> 
> this is a modern day flight attendant au. idk what i was thinking. idk anything abt airlines. in fact--i hate flying. so pls take everything w/ a grain of salt. 
> 
> a jar of salt would probably be more appropriate.

 

U.N.C.L.E. is, without a doubt, one of the strangest airlines Napoleon’s had to work for. Peculiar name aside, Waverly, their pilot, is a character of his own. He’s heard rumours from the other staff that Waverly was the owner of the company who wanted an excuse to fly planes for a living. Never mind the fact that his own co-worker hates him; something which he turns to Gaby to complain about frequently.

“Just--assign me to a different crew, I don’t know,” Napoleon tells Waverly, frustrated.

“Your cooperation with Mr. Kuryakin is paramount to the success of our flights,” Waverly says, instead, and dismisses him with a smile that makes Napoleon thinks he privately finds the entire situation amusing in more ways than one.

So Napoleon remains standing next to Illya by the entryway of the airplane, and smiles insincerely at the incoming passengers while Illya bares his teeth at them. Gaby rolls her eyes when the both of them pretend to be deaf when an old lady starts screeching at another passenger over their seat.

“I’ll handle that,” she says, even though the three of them know that she would have gone on her own, anyway.

“You need to relax,” Napoleon says, turning to Illya. “Passengers become tense when the crew is tense. Flying in a box in a thousand feet above the ground isn’t exactly an enjoyable experience.”

Illya’s jaw clicks shut. “The passengers are not tense,” he hisses, and pointedly ignores the old lady who's now arguing with Gaby. “I am not tense.”

Napoleon squints at him and Illya glares back. “I’m just glad that we don’t have to do those safety announcements ever again,” Napoleon says finally, gesturing at the in-flight entertainment system. Illya shrugs and the tension seems to dissipate, at least a little bit.

Gaby walks over them and tells them to buckle in. Moments later, Waverly’s voice comes crackling through the overhead PA system, telling people their flight details, and that they’re going to take off soon. Waverly also tells the cabin crew to be seated, so the clicks of seatbelts echo throughout the cabin, and Napoleon follows suit. Illya’s sat next to him and Gaby’s across the both of them; something which seems to set Illya off.

“You’ll have to tolerate my presence for a little longer,” Napoleon murmurs to Illya, who tenses immediately. “Waverly refused to send me somewhere else.”

“I will kill you, and then myself,” Illya says. Napoleon’s unsure whether there’s an actual threat underneath his words. Gaby just scoffs at the both of them, though, so maybe Illya’s just joking.

Or maybe not, Napoleon thinks, as he notices the taut line of Illya’s jaw; how his hands start to shake. Napoleon’s always testing his luck with Illya, if he’s being honest, joking with him in a way that prompts a rise out of Illya to amuse himself. Now, though, Gaby shoots him a look that tells him to leave it, so Napoleon does, and looks out of the window as the plane taxis on the runway.

Once the plane has stopped its ascent and the gears have shifted back in place, a ‘ding’ resounds throughout the cabin: Waverly has decided that it is safe for seatbelts to be removed. Illya unbuckles his seatbelt and walks over to the intercom system.

Napoleon raises an eyebrow. “ _ You’re _ going to make the announcement?”

Illya bristles. “I do not see why not,” he says, and picks up the phone-like contraption. Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has now turned off the fasten seatbelt sign. However, for your own safety, we ask that you keep your seatbelt fastened while seated. Thank you.”

Napoleon turns to Gaby, who looks at Illya like he’s grown a second head. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks Illya has been abducted by aliens,” he says, and laughs when Illya scowls at him. “No aliens, then.”

“You are the alien,” Illya says, and opens the curtains leading the pathway to the first class suites. Someone had already called for an attendant.

“Was that a joke? Did Illya Kuryakin just--” Napoleon starts and stops, eyes widening.

Gaby pats his shoulder. “Not to mention the fact that he voluntarily did intercom duty and is now handling 'capitalist scum'--sorry--businessmen out of his own will, yes.”

“Did Waverly give him a raise?”

“If he had, then the both of us would have as well. Last I checked, my bank account had not increased exponentially,” she says, with a wry grin.

Napoleon stares at the closed curtains in bewilderment. “What the fuck is happening, then?”

* * *

_ Employee of the Year _ . Jesus. Illya was willing to embarrass himself (i.e. actually do his job) in order to win a fucking award. There has to be more to the award than just winning an arbitrary title, Napoleon thinks, so on their stopover in Dubai in another nameless hotel somewhere, Napoleon confronts Illya.

They’re having breakfast, so Napoleon waits for Illya to take his entire plateful of bacon. He gestures for Illya to take a seat next to him, and Illya does, albeit with a wary look as he sets down his plate on the table.

“That’s all you’re eating?” Napoleon says drily, and bites into his Nutella sandwich, waiting for Illya to respond.

“No,” Illya retorts, and proceeds to shove a grotesque amount of bacon into his mouth. Napoleon stares for a few moments, fascinated, before remembering what he’d actually wanted from Illya.

“Employee of the year, huh?” He says, attempting to look casual.

Illya narrows his eyes. “What about it.”

_ Jackpot _ , Napoleon thinks, delighted. He schools his face and says, “nothing,” instead.

Illya chews on his bacon for a while longer before setting his fork down. “I am not letting you get the award,” he says, coolly, and sips on his coffee.

Napoleon’s brain slowly churns. “Is it that important to you?”

He doesn’t get a response. Instead, Illya’s gotten up and has walked back to the buffet, probably to get another plate impossibly covered in bacon.

Gaby enters the breakfast hall, and saunters over to Napoleon’s table. “Found out why Illya wants that award?”

“Not really, no,” he admits. “I kind of want in, though.”

Gaby wrinkles her nose. “What, you want to be ‘employee of the year’?” She says, complete with air quotes. “I didn’t know you gave a shit about your job.”

Napoleon shrugs. “I don’t,” he says, “and neither does Illya.”

“So you’re going to try and sabotage his chances just for fun?”

“Don’t make it sound crude,” Napoleon grins.

They both look at Illya, who’s busy taking the hotel's entire stock of cured meats and dumping said meats onto his already full plate. The hotel manager looks like he’s about to protest, but Illya fixes him with a cool stare and Illya returns, plate of meat intact.

“This is the only good part of the job,” Illya says, at Gaby and Napoleon’s looks of amusement.

* * *

The first time Napoleon and Illya meet, Napoleon cracks a joke about how flying is pretty much similar to being trapped in a Siberian gulag. He gets a polite smile in return, and Illya turns away to talk to Waverly in the cockpit. Napoleon congratulates himself on being able to break through Illya’s seemingly cold exterior.

However, he returns to his seat to discover that something--or someone--has rendered it completely useless: the seat is wrenched out of its place.

“What,” he says.

Illya appears out of nowhere and stands next to him with a toothy grin. “From Russia, with love,” he says, and snickers as he walks out of the galley.

“I’m stuck with a crazy Russian who wants to kill me,” Napoleon hisses into his phone as soon as he arrives at the hotel; his job done for the day.

“I see you’ve met the new steward, Illya Kuryakin.” Gaby replies, amused.

“Does Waverly know he’s destroyed his seat?” Napoleon splutters. “Did Mark really have to quit his job?”

“Pretty sure he’ll just think it’s ‘banter’,” she says, in a poor imitation of Waverly’s accent. “Besides, Mark didn’t quit--he’s assigned with a different crew.”

Napoleon snorts. “It’s like working with a temperamental grizzly bear.”

“Just your type, then,” Gaby says, cheerfully, and hangs up abruptly. Napoleon stares at his phone like it’s betrayed him.

A quick Google search tells him that Illya Kuryakin is practically untraceable--on the internet, at the very least. He sighs in frustration. If anyone had typed his own name they would certainly be bombarded by his latest Instagram updates, his Facebook posts--even his poor attempt at vlogging his job on his abandoned YouTube channel. (Napoleon had to learn by experience that airlines weren’t too thrilled at their flight attendants moaning about flying, despite the fact that he’d interspersed his complaints with artistic timelapses of sunrises and planes taking off and whatnot.)

He flops down on the overly soft hotel bed and sighs in frustration as he scrubs a hand over his face. He tries not to think about the crazy Russian who had nearly killed him--now that sounded like a low-budget spy movie, he thinks, and prepares for bed instead. Namely, a few hours of sleep, considering that their next flight is at four in the morning, and it’s nearly midnight, now.

Napoleon’s had worse first meetings with others, but he’s unable to shake off the weird apprehension he has thinking about Illya and how they’ll manage to work together without killing each other. Or something.

* * *

“Ask Illya to tell you about the award,” Napoleon says, as they make it through immigration and customs in Amsterdam. Illya’s lagging behind; waiting for his passport to get stamped, so Napoleon seizes the opportunity to ask Gaby for help.

“No,” Gaby says, simply, and goes back to scrolling through Facebook.

“He has a soft spot for you,” Napoleon says.

“I’m aware of that,” she sniffs. “Which is why I don’t want to exploit him. Have a heart, Solo.”

“Who doesn’t have a heart?” Illya says, as he walks out of the barrier, tucking his passport away into his inside pocket of his suit jacket.

Gaby gestures at Napoleon with her thumb. “Mr. Solo here doesn’t.”

“That is not a surprise,” Illya says, which earns a snicker out of Gaby.

Illya and Gaby continue talking while Napoleon ponders over the award. Illya can’t actually be putting so much effort into something intangible, he thinks. Fuck it.

“Illya.” He says, and ignores the way Gaby’s face lights up at the possibility of the two of them being civil, for once.

“What do you want, Cowboy.”

“I want to know why you’re obsessed with being the employee of the year.”

“Because I want to be employee of the year,” Illya says, as if he’s stating the obvious.

“Bullshit,” Napoleon says, cheerily. “There’s gotta be something more to it.”

“Maybe I have discovered joys of Western capitalism.” Illya says ‘capitalism’ the same way a fifth grader would say ‘math homework’.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Napoleon mutters. “Also, was that sarcasm?”

Illya smiles; an impersonation of a shark, more than anything. He rolls his sleeves up, and Napoleon follows the movement, distracted.

“Seriously, though,” Napoleon says, looking away. If he wore shades indoors, he would have lowered them over his eyes. He’s a dickhead, but he’s not that much of a dickhead, so he doesn’t, and he fiddles with his own sleeves instead. “What’s in it for the winner?”

“What is ‘in it’, is the fact that you should mind your own business and let me win.”

Napoleon feels himself perk up at the sound of a challenge. “ _ Let _ you win?”

“I am sure you are smart man,” Illya says, gruffly. “Let me win.”

“I’m glad you think I’m smart, Illya,” Napoleon grins, “but there is no way in hell I’m letting you get away with anything.”

Illya scowls. “Mind your own business, Cowboy.”

“Maybe I won’t, Peril.” Napoleon counters.

“Boys,” Gaby says, with a tired sigh. “It’s two in the morning and we have to be at the airport at ten tomorrow. I’d like it very much if you both shut up.”

“Yes, General Secretary,” Napoleon jokes, but he remains quiet afterwards. Illya colors and follows suit--it’s funny how a six foot five giant can be practically brought to tears by Gaby.

Waverly has contacts--family, or something, Napoleon wasn’t listening properly--in Amsterdam, so they go in different directions shortly afterwards. The three of them manage to get a taxi to get to their nondescript hotel a few miles away from the airport, and the thought of having a room to himself is a relief, if anything.

Napoleon’s so tired that he even forgoes his usual routine of flirting with the receptionist, and he gives Gaby and Illya a little salute as he slides the hotel key card into the lock to open the door. The thought of the award affecting Illya so much keeps him awake for longer than it usually takes for him to fall asleep, though, and he stares at the darkness, annoyed. There had to be a reason as to why he was so determined.

* * *

 

“There’s a prize involved.” Gaby says, after Napoleon lets her into his room. She’d planned for the three of them to get breakfast together, and she’s in a sweater and lounge pants, so he doesn’t feel too guilty at the fact that he’d just woken up and brushed his teeth. “He told me without me needing to ‘exploit’ him.”

“I fucking knew it,” he crows, and then makes a face. “Wait. What on earth is at stake, here?”

“Two extra weeks off, and two free return tickets to wherever. With the airline, obviously, but you’ll be off-duty, then.” She flops ungracefully on his bed with an ‘oof’.

“You know, if you wanted to sleep with me, you should have said,” he teases, sitting on the bed himself.

“You’re gross,” she says, without any heat, and turns to face him. “Are you that into being the employee of the year?”

Napoleon shrugs. “Not really. I just want to piss Illya off, and if I get two weeks off as well, then why not.”

Gaby sighs. “If there’s a reason why he’s doing this, then maybe you should stay out of it.”

“Are you kidding me? Hell no. I’m not going to let him win.”

“It’s not a competition,” Gaby says, looking like she’s starting to develop a headache from talking to Napoleon.

“There wouldn’t be a prize if it wasn’t one,” Napoleon says, pointedly, and Gaby groans.

“The prize’s rather shit, anyway, I don’t see why you’re so worked up about it. Or why Illya is too, for that matter.” Her expression grows pensive.

Napoleon throws his hands in the air. “See? There’s gotta be something behind all this. Maybe he’s an FSB spy and winning the award is a test for him.” He waggles his eyebrows.

“You are unreal, Napoleon Solo.”

“So is Illya, for giving this much of a shit,” Napoleon says.

“But you’re giving many, many shits yourself,” Gaby points out, and Napoleon winces.

“Maybe we should stop saying ‘shit’.”

“Shit.”

“Gaby Teller, ladies and gentlemen,” he tells the hotel wall. She starts clapping in response, and he tuts. “Self praise is no praise.”

“Says you,” she scoffs, and hops out of bed. “Be downstairs for breakfast in ten minutes. Illya’s probably already there.”

Illya  _ is  _ already there when he gets down in twenty minutes, and he frowns at Napoleon’s late arrival while Gaby gives him a catlike grin. There are already two empty plates in front of Illya.

“Honestly, Illya, you need to chill on the breakfast buffets.” Napoleon says.

“The food is free, so we eat it,” Illya shrugs, and gets up in search of more food while Gaby pours herself another cup of tea.

“He has a point,” she says, adding sugar and milk to her tea and stirring it.

“Fair.” He moves away from the table and arrives at the bread section, where he meets Illya in the process of toasting bread. “What’re you having?” he asks, popping bread into the toaster himself.

“Bread.” Illya takes an ungodly amount of ham and dumps it on his plate. Napoleon can sense that the old lady next to Illya is tutting at him, but Illya continues to test his plate’s limits anyway.

“A meat sandwich, more like,” Napoleon comments.

When Illya doesn’t respond, Napoleon nudges him and says, “so, how’s that award going?”

To his surprise, Illya doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he replies, “it is good. Waverly is surprised I am putting effort.”

Illya’s about to turn away when Napoleon grabs the crook of his elbow. “What do you want,” he says, displeased.

“What if I told you I wanted in?”

“On what.”

“The award,” Napoleon says, with a thousand-watt smile.

“Go fuck yourself,” Illya replies, and walks back to their table with his ridiculous pile of ham and bread.

The toaster  _ dings _ and Napoleon’s bread pops up. How appropriate, he thinks, watching Illya go.

* * *

On their flight to Hong Kong, Napoleon is determined to charm every single passenger onboard. This goes over well with the old ladies and some young women and men as well, and he can practically feel Illya glowering behind him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Illya hisses, after Napoleon’s had a little chat with a tired-looking single mother in the galley.

“Entertaining the passengers before they pee,” Napoleon jokes, pointing at the occupied lavatory.

“You know what I mean,” Illya narrows his eyes.

Napoleon flutters his lashes. “I care about the wellbeing of others, what can I say? I just love my job.”

“You fucking hate it,” Illya says, and winces when an old man emerges from one of the lavatories looking scandalized at what Illya’s just said. “Sorry,” he mutters, and now it’s turn for Napoleon to look scandalized himself.

“‘Hate’ is a strong word. And I’ve never see you apologize to a passenger before.”

“If you bring up the award one more time--”

“You’re doing that now, not me,” Napoleon grins, and rushes off to attend to another passenger before Illya chokes him to death, or something.

After he finishes bringing coffee to the passenger, he returns to the galley and checks his watch.

“Lunch for the passengers starts now, yeah?” Gaby says, echoing his thoughts. Illya nods, pulling out the cart and motions for Napoleon to start pulling out the food trays from the shelves. Gaby unloads the trays from the shelves as well, and they start shelving them into the cart’s compartments.

It’s disconcerting, to say the least, to see Illya smiling--and looking like he actually means it--at the passengers as he serves them their food. So disconcerting, in fact, that Napoleon manages to spill orange juice on himself while he’s busy gaping at Illya making cooing noises at a baby. The passenger that he’s serving pretends not to laugh, so he manages to continue the service without any more juice being spilled.

Illya says ‘chicken or beef’ with a beatific smile on his face, and Napoleon thinks that the world is ending.

* * *

Once they reach their hotel, Napoleon finds out that they have three days off before their next flight--a rare occurrence. Not that flying often annoys Napoleon, because despite himself, he actually enjoys his job. But it’s nice, all the same, to be able to relax for a bit. Except he has to share a room with Illya due to the hotel being fully booked, so maybe relaxing is a bit of a stretch, here.

Illya still has his cream field jacket on, along with the rest of his uniform. He has a habit of swapping his uniform suit jacket for a jacket of his own once they’ve left the airport, and Napoleon privately marvels at several of his outfits. On the other hand, Napoleon’s showered and changed into joggers and a t-shirt--the latter only on out of decency for Illya’s sake rather than anything. He feels like Illya’s the sort to actually have an aneurysm if he sees any form of nudity. Which is a shame, really, considering that ‘gratuitous nudity’ is practically Napoleon’s middle name.

“Are you not going to change?” Napoleon’s sat on the dressing table with his back to the mirror. He gestures at Illya’s jacket, and Illya makes a noise of approval and removes his jacket and places it on the bed closest to the window.

“My bed, now,” he says, with a hint of a smile, taking a seat on the plush-looking armchair.

The thing is--Napoleon has seen Illya in uniform countless times. It’s their job, for fuck’s sake, he thinks, a little frustrated, and yet, there’s something about the way Illya’s languidly spread out on the chair with his sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened.

Napoleon snaps out of it when Illya gets up from the chair in an abrupt motion. “I’m going to shower,” Illya says, by way of explanation as he opens his suitcase to fish out his toiletries and clothing.

“I’ve used up all the hot water,” Napoleon says, and feels vindicated when he sees a familiar scowl return on Illya’s face. “I’m kidding.” He adds, as an afterthought.

“Ha ha,” Illya says, straight-faced, and closes the bathroom door.

Napoleon decides to pass the time by flipping through the five channels the hotel TV has. Three of them are in Cantonese, and two of them are news channels. He settles on the BBC, and nearly drifts off to the news of an earthquake somewhere. Illya wakes him up, because of course he does.

“Do you think U.N.C.L.E. will pay for alcohol?” Illya smells of mint and sandalwood.

“I don’t think so, no,” Napoleon snorts.

“Shame,” Illya mutters, and climbs onto his bed. He’s wearing a comfy-looking heather grey hoodie with black drawstring shorts, and he has a book in his hand. There are black reading glasses perched on his nose and he yawns. Something clenches in Napoleon’s chest.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” Napoleon says, instead.

“I use them when I read,” Illya replies, and pushes them up higher. Napoleon hears the sound of the pages of the book turning, and he turns over to face Illya; propping his pillow up against the headboard as he does so in order to sit up straight.

“What’re you reading?”

Illya frowns. “My fist in your face, if you don’t shut up.”

“You can’t read that,” Napoleon says, but he turns away, grinning.

“I’m reading Schopenhauer,” Illya says, after a few moments.

“How morbid.”

“The world is morbid,” Illya says, and Napoleon snorts.

“Didn’t exactly peg you to be the philosophical type.”

“I’m not. My father was a philosophy professor, though.”

“And your mother?” Napoleon asks, curious. He’s surprised that Illya had actually chosen to share something about his life in the first place.

“A writer,” he says, and turns a page. He’s clearly stopped the conversation, but Napoleon presses on, because he is nothing but persistent.

“Do you miss home?”

“Only a fool would not miss Russia,” Illya says, his face softening. Napoleon hums, thoughtful.

To his surprise, Illya says, “do you ever miss America?”

“The country as like, an entity?” Napoleon snorts. “No.” At Illya’s look of disapproval, he adds, “I do miss New York a lot. The lights, the people, the food, the whole cliche.” He yawns. “We have a stopover in Moscow next month, if you’re interested. I’ve got the bidding schedule with me. Pretty sure we have to submit it by tomorrow afternoon.”

Illya huffs. “I have my laptop in my bag. I can do it tomorrow.” He turns another page.

“Are you going to let me win the competition?”

Illya growls and slams the book shut. “The award is  _ not _ a competition,” he informs Napoleon and sniffs.

“I wasn’t referring to the award, but the fact that you were shows that it’s a competition,” Napoleon says, grinning.

“You little shit,” Illya snarls. “Don’t get involved.”

“It can’t be that serious,” Napoleon says, and at Illya’s responding silence, he lets out a low whistle. “I see how it is, then. Fine. I bet you I’ll win the award by the end of this year.”

“I’ll kill you if you do.”

“The game is afoot, then,” Napoleon declares, and buries himself under his blankets to block out any profanities that Illya’s probably yelling at him. Illya is, of course, hurling curses in Russian, and Napoleon smiles; self-satisfied, and closes his eyes shut.

* * *

Napoleon wakes up to the sunlight streaming through the open windows, the sound of fingers flying over a keyboard, and a shirtless Illya. He swallows thickly and sits up straight, rubbing his eyes. So much for Illya being a prude, he thinks. The rustling noises the sheets make must have alerted Illya, because he turns around to take a look at Napoleon.

“Good morning, Cowboy.” Illya says, running a hand through his hair before going back to his laptop. The room has a desk, much to Napoleon’s surprise when he’d first entered the room, so Illya’s sat behind the desk with his laptop on its surface. He has their schedule open, so he’s probably busy filling out his timetable for the next month.

“Morning,” he replies, and immediately regrets doing so after tasting his morning breath. Napoleon pushes the covers off and makes his way to the bathroom, rubbing at his eyes blearily.

He squeezes too much toothpaste onto his toothbrush, because of course he does, and his mouth ends up burning as he spits into the sink. Fantastic. He glares at his reflection and walks out of the bathroom, wiping his mouth on his t-shirt. There’s a bit of toothpaste that gets transferred onto his shirt, and he sighs.

“I see you are not a morning person,” Illya says, after taking a look at the white stain on Napoleon’s shirt.

_ I see you like to browse the internet shirtless _ , Napoleon doesn’t say.  He settles on saying, “I see you are an asshole,” instead.

“Pot, kettle, black,” Illya hums, and returns to his laptop.

“Filling out your timetable?” Napoleon says, peering over Illya’s distractingly bare shoulder. Illya smells of soap and aftershave, and Napoleon feels a weird urge to press his cheek against Illya’s back.

Illya nods. “I’m trying to get the flight to Melbourne via Singapore. Some idiot is insisting that he deserves it more than me.”

“Get Gaby and I on that flight too as well,” Napoleon says, poking Illya’s shoulder.

“I book long distance flight to get away from your stupid face,” Illya says, swatting Napoleon’s hand away, but he adds a request to be with his typical crew, and Napoleon kisses the top of Illya’s head before he can stop himself.

Illya looks at him with an inscrutable expression.

“Now your hair can be minty fresh,” Napoleon says, lamely.

“I have already showered,” Illya says, but he doesn’t look like he’s about to punch Napoleon in the face, which is a first. Napoleon steps away from Illya because--well. He absently wipes his lips with the back of his hand, and his eyes meet Illya’s.

“What do you want,” Napoleon says, with faked bravado.

He gets no answer, and Illya returns to staring at his laptop screen intently. “We’ll need more than three cabin crew members for long distance flights.”

Napoleon shrugs. “Yeah, sure. We get paid by how long we stay on that plane, anyway. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

Illya’s still frowning, though.

“I’ll bite. What’s bothering you?”

“Whoever is on the flight with us cannot outdo my service,” Illya says, seriously.

“Are you saying that I’m not competition?” Napoleon says, putting a hand over his heart. “Honestly, Peril, I’m hurt.”

Illya glowers and points an accusatory finger at Napoleon. “You are not meant to participate,  _ Cowboy _ .”

Napoleon pats Illya on the shoulder and walks away to grab his clothes from his suitcase. “I’m going to shower now. Put on a shirt--we’re going out once I’m done.”

“Typical American, thinking that the world revolves around him,” Illya mutters, but he eyes his suitcase anyway, so Napoleon thinks that he’ll be alright.

Illya does have a shirt on when Napoleon emerges from the shower, and he tries to tamp down what oddly feels like disappointment in his stomach. The thing is, Illya actually looks nice. He’s wearing a red flannel shirt with khaki shorts, and there’s an emerald green cardigan laid out on the bed, waiting. It’s just a shame, he thinks, as he watches Illya button his sleeves together, and he freezes, refusing to think about it--about anything any further.

Napoleon settles on saying, “you look nice.”

He gets a small smile in return. “We should call Gaby. We’ve missed breakfast,” Illya says, after he peers at his watch on his wrist. His father’s watch, Napoleon thinks, remembering the time Illya had nearly killed him over Napoleon borrowing his watch for an extended period of time--stealing, really.

Napoleon decides to text her rather than call, so it’s a relief when she replies within a matter of seconds.

“She says she’ll be in our room in a few minutes,” he reads off his phone, and he looks at Illya, who looks like a walking Banana Republic ad. Huh. “Are you dressed this nicely because of Gaby?”

“I will--”

“Kill me, punch me, etcetera, I know.” Napoleon clicks his tongue. It doesn’t really answer Napoleon’s question, but he doesn’t get to dwell on it any further, because Gaby’s already knocking at their door.

“Faster than I thought,” Napoleon says, as Gaby walks into their room, lowering her white-rimmed circular shades before sliding them to the top of her head.

Her daisy-print skirt swishes as she strides over to jab Illya’s laptop. "You got a flight for the three of us, right?”

“Of course,” Illya says, and Napoleon snorts.

“Funny, I remember you saying that you didn’t want to be on a flight with me.”

Gaby raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Is the competition still going on, then?”

Illya makes a wounded noise. “It is  _ not _ competition.”

“You wouldn’t act like you had a stick up your ass if it wasn’t a competition,” Napoleon says, and Illya reddens.

“Our poor boy here always has a stick up his ass,” Gaby laughs, and pats Illya on the head--something that would probably get Napoleon murdered if he had to tried to do so himself, but it’s  _ Gaby _ , so Illya just stews in his seat instead.

Then again, he had kissed the top of Illya’s head and had gotten out alive, so. Napoleon rubs his face and sighs.

* * *

Hong Kong in October is fairly warm, so the three of them end up walking around Kowloon with their sleeves rolled up and their outerwear tied around their waists. Or left in the hotel, in Napoleon’s case.

The cityscape is beautiful, even in the daytime, so Napoleon’s more than a little surprised when Gaby says, “let’s go to Disneyland.”

“Why can’t we just enjoy the city like normal people?” He grumbles, and he turns to Illya. “Don’t tell me you think this is a good idea.”

Illya’s about to open his mouth to protest, but Gaby puts a finger over her lips and shushes him. “Ilya likes Disneyland, doesn’t he?” She looks at him and bats his eyelashes. “ _ Space Mountain _ , Illya.” When Illya doesn’t respond, she adds, “We’ll make sure we go to a jazz club afterwards. Or tomorrow.”

“Are you serious,” Napoleon splutters, and Illya says, “we are going to Disneyland,” with a determined expression.

“I thought you weren’t into the whole ‘Western decadence’ thing that Disneyland embodies,” Napoleon says, as they get into the train to Disneyland from Kowloon station.

“I am not,” Illya replies, shortly. He has a death grip on the handrail while Gaby’s sat comfortably at the plush seats with Mickey Mouse logos printed on them. (Or, in Illya’s words, ‘The Mouse Which Represents The Spirit Of Western Consumerism.’)

He rubs a hand on his jaw, and finally says, “but if this means I get to listen to jazz without you two, then.” He punctuates his sentence with a shrug.

Napoleon splutters. “You’re not actually going to sneak away in the middle of the night to listen to a sub-par Miles Davis tribute band, are you?”

“Maybe,” Illya says, and Napoleon’s about to reply when a cheery announcement tells them that they’re thirty minutes away from the happiest place on earth.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm stupidly uploading this the night before school starts, so i _might_ get around to updating this, but i might not. this is also barely edited, bc it's just kind of been...rotting in gdocs. soz.
> 
> hmu on [twitter](http://twitter.com/kvryakin) so we can yell about things together! (and if you do, please tell me that you're from ao3 so i can follow you!!!)


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